It took all of Saul’s strength to drag the wounded body of his travelling companion, Lawrence, back into the roadhouse. He grasped the merchant’s leather jacket by the collar, pulling the injured man backwards. Saul flung open the screen door, propping it open with his shoulder. Finally, Lawrence’s body was completely inside the door and the spring-loaded screen snapped closed. Saul took a break to push back the hair that fell on his forehead. With the last of his strength he propped Lawrence against the wall opposite the door and slumped down next to him. The fighting could still be easily heard outside.
“Hang in there, Lawrence. We’ll get you out of here. You’ll be okay.” There was no response. He’s in shock. Saul was trying to catch his breath. He took a moment and looked around the building. It’s some sort of tavern, I guess. The building was made to look rustic, one of those mock-log cabins. The large square room they were in was dimly lit, and everything took on an orange hue in the late afternoon sun. Dark green, patterned drapes hung from the windows. The place was dusty and smelt of mold. There were some tables and chairs set up, old small things with woven seats that looked like they’d be more useful repurposed as kindling. The empty bar was on their right. It was a sturdy piece made of dark wood. A large set of built in wall-shelves flanked the large, broken mirror behind where the bartender would have normally stood.
The mirror reminded Saul of an old saloon, a real old-western type of place. His head filled with the sounds of imaginary spurs clinking as leather boots stomped across the wooden floor. He imagined the smell of smoke, the sound of liquor being poured and the faint neigh of horses coming from outside. The screen door was replaced with swinging ones, and unlabeled green bottles now crowded the shelves. Seats were filled with mustached men in vests and cowboy hats.
Lawrence coughed and the daydream vanished. The left shoulder of his leather jacket was soaked with blood. The bullet-hole looked to be about an inch or two above the armpit. Well, it’s not the worst place in the world for him to get shot. There was a frenzied yelp from outside.
“Alright, buddy. We have to get that jacket off.” The wounded man groaned. Saul gently unzipped the jacket. Carefully his hands slid the coat off of Lawrence’s shoulder. Lawrence winced in pain, his eyes were unfocused, sweat beaded on his forehead. Shit. This is no good. Saul didn’t know what to do.
His hands were now covered in the other man’s blood. The sanguine color was surprisingly beautiful caught in the orange rays of the sun.
“How did we get into this mess, Lawrence? Who were those guys?” Saul didn’t expect an answer. Neither of them knew who the men were who attacked their party.
The din from outside stopped and Floyd came marching in through the screen door followed by his sister, Eliza.
“Is he alright?” Floyd immediately asked. The giant man’s steps thumped across the room and he knelt next to the injured.
“I don’t know, Floyd. I think he’s in shock,” Saul explained. “What happened out there?”
“Those two won’t be bothering us anymore,” Eliza spoke up. “Get out of the way, you two. Let me fix him up.”
Floyd and Eliza laid Lawrence down on his back. Eliza withdrew a small knife. Floyd got up and headed behind the bar. He returned with a nearly empty bottle. His sister poured the alcohol onto the knife and gingerly began to search for the bullet lodged in her companion’s shoulder.
Saul resigned himself to one of the chairs. Floyd came over and sat down next to him.
After a moment’s silence Floyd began, “You did the right thing dragging him back in here. Who knows what would have happened if you two didn’t get to shelter.”
His voice was calm and reassuring. “Eliza has some practice with first-aid. She’ll be able to get the bullet out and clean up the wound. Our friend Lawrence should be okay.”
Saul was relieved. “What happened, though? Who were they?”
“Not sure,” Floyd stated, “Highway robbers? One’s dead and the other is on the brink, now.”
Floyd was visibly weary. Saul got up, leaving the big man alone. He went to the front window. The view that greeted him was not pretty: two bodies lying in the dust. Patches of blood-darkened earth were scattered around them. The once-red stains on Saul’s hands had now turned to a murky brown color. He did his best to rub them clean. The dried blood fell off in flakes.
He turned from the window. Eliza was dressing Lawrence’s wound with a roll of clean gauze and Floyd was heavily slumped in his chair. Saul took one more look at the bodies outside before heading back to sit down. The room was no longer orange; the sun had set. Saul pushed his hair back off his forehead and, once again, tried to think of cowboys.
“Hang in there, Lawrence. We’ll get you out of here. You’ll be okay.” There was no response. He’s in shock. Saul was trying to catch his breath. He took a moment and looked around the building. It’s some sort of tavern, I guess. The building was made to look rustic, one of those mock-log cabins. The large square room they were in was dimly lit, and everything took on an orange hue in the late afternoon sun. Dark green, patterned drapes hung from the windows. The place was dusty and smelt of mold. There were some tables and chairs set up, old small things with woven seats that looked like they’d be more useful repurposed as kindling. The empty bar was on their right. It was a sturdy piece made of dark wood. A large set of built in wall-shelves flanked the large, broken mirror behind where the bartender would have normally stood.
The mirror reminded Saul of an old saloon, a real old-western type of place. His head filled with the sounds of imaginary spurs clinking as leather boots stomped across the wooden floor. He imagined the smell of smoke, the sound of liquor being poured and the faint neigh of horses coming from outside. The screen door was replaced with swinging ones, and unlabeled green bottles now crowded the shelves. Seats were filled with mustached men in vests and cowboy hats.
Lawrence coughed and the daydream vanished. The left shoulder of his leather jacket was soaked with blood. The bullet-hole looked to be about an inch or two above the armpit. Well, it’s not the worst place in the world for him to get shot. There was a frenzied yelp from outside.
“Alright, buddy. We have to get that jacket off.” The wounded man groaned. Saul gently unzipped the jacket. Carefully his hands slid the coat off of Lawrence’s shoulder. Lawrence winced in pain, his eyes were unfocused, sweat beaded on his forehead. Shit. This is no good. Saul didn’t know what to do.
His hands were now covered in the other man’s blood. The sanguine color was surprisingly beautiful caught in the orange rays of the sun.
“How did we get into this mess, Lawrence? Who were those guys?” Saul didn’t expect an answer. Neither of them knew who the men were who attacked their party.
The din from outside stopped and Floyd came marching in through the screen door followed by his sister, Eliza.
“Is he alright?” Floyd immediately asked. The giant man’s steps thumped across the room and he knelt next to the injured.
“I don’t know, Floyd. I think he’s in shock,” Saul explained. “What happened out there?”
“Those two won’t be bothering us anymore,” Eliza spoke up. “Get out of the way, you two. Let me fix him up.”
Floyd and Eliza laid Lawrence down on his back. Eliza withdrew a small knife. Floyd got up and headed behind the bar. He returned with a nearly empty bottle. His sister poured the alcohol onto the knife and gingerly began to search for the bullet lodged in her companion’s shoulder.
Saul resigned himself to one of the chairs. Floyd came over and sat down next to him.
After a moment’s silence Floyd began, “You did the right thing dragging him back in here. Who knows what would have happened if you two didn’t get to shelter.”
His voice was calm and reassuring. “Eliza has some practice with first-aid. She’ll be able to get the bullet out and clean up the wound. Our friend Lawrence should be okay.”
Saul was relieved. “What happened, though? Who were they?”
“Not sure,” Floyd stated, “Highway robbers? One’s dead and the other is on the brink, now.”
Floyd was visibly weary. Saul got up, leaving the big man alone. He went to the front window. The view that greeted him was not pretty: two bodies lying in the dust. Patches of blood-darkened earth were scattered around them. The once-red stains on Saul’s hands had now turned to a murky brown color. He did his best to rub them clean. The dried blood fell off in flakes.
He turned from the window. Eliza was dressing Lawrence’s wound with a roll of clean gauze and Floyd was heavily slumped in his chair. Saul took one more look at the bodies outside before heading back to sit down. The room was no longer orange; the sun had set. Saul pushed his hair back off his forehead and, once again, tried to think of cowboys.